Home » new poems

Not Blocking The Exploding

By (May 1, 2010) No Comment

Tuesday clouds this hectic splatter, distorts
the calendar’s faith in progression, its suspicion

of narrative. There’s just this one next thing
plunked down, weighty & here, after the last

next thing burned off in mist. I say your name
out loud in the blue, in a field of fields,

in my own voice. I kept going. I teach myself
to control the forward fall. I stunning beauty

in the face of this unraveling. Sometimes
there’s a breath in the trees that crowd the lakeshore

& sometimes there’s a break in the me
I’ve sketched on the surface of the churning

waters & sunlight pours through the canopy,
those brittle leaves not blocking the exploding light.

Sometimes writing this poem means I’m losing
the other. I file a letter of acceptance. I eviscerate

the memory. I stumbling leaf freefall in November
Syracuse cold. Before clouds, a sun & from that sun

the dawn spilled everywhere & my backyard
could not contain it just as I could not contain

my backyard just as I could not contain that bird
& that bird could not contain me because

I would crush that bird if I could, pluck it
right out of the sky’s big azure eye & squeeze

until it was nothing but history in my hands,
all that frazzled flight blown off, a note referring me

back to the before that moment when I saw something
here beneath low-flying that was so much not me I reached

out & held. Before Tuesday, Monday & before Monday
a whole recitation of disappeared ephemera gone as I

outlived it. I lived it & I lived it & I lived it up.
Sometimes where do we find ourselves isn’t

a question so much as it is a heart lifted high
into the haze above our heads, as in look at this

& you tell me where I am & do you know
where I should be. Tuesday so this is my time

to blow up like a fist while the sunlight holds
back & casts judgment like shadows on scene.

All day I’ve been watching these trees, waiting
for their arms to fall & all day I’m in awe

of their dumb persistence – so sure that if
they hold something up high enough, long enough,

it will be noticed. Sometimes I drop brightness
from my branches & can only watch the fall

& can only pretend there’s an answer to get.
Sometimes I wooden trunk uprooted.

Nate Pritts is the author of three full-length books of poems — The Wonderfull Yeare (Cooper Dillon Books, 2010), Honorary Astronaut (Ghost Road Press, 2008) & Sensational Spectacular (BlazeVOX, 2007). Nate teaches gifted students online through Johns Hopkins University’s Center for Talented Youth. The founder & principal editor of H_NGM_N, find him online at http://www.natepritts.com

Leave a comment!

Add your comment below, or trackback from your own site. You can also Comments Feed via RSS.

Be nice. Keep it clean. Stay on topic. No spam.

You can use these tags:
<a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>

This is a Gravatar-enabled weblog. To get your own globally-recognized-avatar, please register at Gravatar.